Strange Encounters
by Soledad
Summary: Random glimpses into the non-existing life of frustrated fanfic authors. WIP. Co-written with Tolkanonms, Archet and Lasse-Lanta. My parts are un-betaed and thoroughly silly.
1. One: Gildor

**Strange Encounters**

**Of a Frustrated Fanfic Author**

**by Soledad******

**Disclaimer: All the characters – except the main heroine – belong to Professor Tolkien. I'm just borrowing them for a while to play.**

**Rating: PG, for this part.**

**Author's notes: **

These independent little chapters have very little to do with my regular stories, except the fact that the Tolkien-characters appearing here will behave the way they do in my other writings. None of this is supposed to be taken seriously. :)

**Dedication: To dear Jenn, whose ongoing Gildor jokes called this totally insane fic into existence. It's she that you should lynch for it, you know… g**

**One: Gildor**

The Frustrated Fanfiction Author (simply FFA for further reference) was sitting in front of her computer and glared at the screen from slightly aching eyes. To say that she was miserable would have been an understanding.

She had a bad week behind her – well, several _really_ bad weeks, actually. She had to put away a few considerable Real Life throwbacks, had put on even more excess weight as a result of the aforementioned throwbacks (chocolate just doesn't solve _every problem, despite its usefulness), and what's was even more frustrating, the dratted muses refused to cooperate. Plus, she just got flamed again by some idiot who deliberately misunderstood one of her stories._

The situation was serious, indeed. She had about a dozen WIPs unfinished, and her plotcritters were crawling in every corner, especially in the shadowy corners of her own brain. (In case you are wondering, plotcritters are about the same creatures as plotbunnies – just smaller and more insistent. Thus they can get everywhere they want). The mere appearance of a new story idea made her groan in pain. The cursed stories would flow smoothly until a certain stage – then they put down their imaginary feet and refused to go anywhere, spawning new plotcritters by every new turn.

"I need bug spray," she muttered, stomping on a particularly bothersome critter concerning Saruman, that insisted that she used ungodly long names in Valarin – names that she could not keep apart in her mind herself, and even less so could her readers. "_Lots_ of bug spray," she added in a murderous tone, picking up the seemingly dead critter with a thong and throwing it out of the open window.

Not that it would help her a lot. The critter will be back in no time. She knew that. But she simply couldn't endure the ugly little bug any longer.

"I begin to hate plotcritters," she muttered, closing the document she wasn't able to working on anyway and accessing the main page of her favourite mailing list for some much-needed inspiration. Maybe the others had written something that she could read and thus banish her own immobile plots from her mind.

For a moment she contemplated the small picture in the group's header. It portrayed a tall, handsome, golden-haired Elf who looked back over his broad shoulder with the typical arrogance of a high-born leader. She couldn't understand why she found this guy so attractive – she never liked blondes in the first place, and she passionately hated arrogant people, especially male ones. Still, this one fictional character fascinated her to no end, and she kept writing about him in many different tales that wouldn't originally contain him at all.

She went into the Photos section of her group where she could see a bigger size of the same picture and sighed. She'd found this particular photo on some other website (she'd forgotten where), and it wasn't even labelled as _her character. But she knew at first sight that this was what the character should look like. And thus the picture became __him._

"What am I going to do with you, Lord Gildor?" she sighed, ready to hit the Back button. Staring at _him_ did nothing to put her mind at ease.

"Whatever you please," a pleasantly smooth baritone voice answered, and she watched in utter shock as the Elf-Lord simply stepped out of the computer screen. Doing so, he seemed to grow to full size, and when he finally stood next to her she could see that he was six feet at the very least, wearing the same silver-hued tunic and royal blue velvet cloak he was wearing on the picture. Also, he smelled faintly of sandalwood and of the Sea.

Strangely, the computer screen was not blank. The picture was still visible on it, despite the very real Elf-Lord, who shook his limbs with a tight smile and – after a moment of consideration – lay his great sword upon the book-case and sat relaxed on the corner of her desk.

"That's better," he declared. "Now, what was it you wanted to do with me?"

She found herself less than articulate at the moment, thinking back furiously what the heck had she eaten or drunk in the last 24 hours that could result in her own character becoming real – well, seemingly real – all of a sudden. She did live in the word of her imagination most of the time, that was true, but usually she could keep things under control.

Of course, it could be that she finally _had_ gone crazy…

"Nay, you are not," said Gildor Inglorion, as if he could read her mind easily. Though considering the fact that he usually _did_ live inside her mind, he probably could. "I'm really here."

"I can see that," she replied suspiciously, "but that doesn't mean that I'm _not insane. After all, you never came to me in flesh before."_

"You never called me," Gildor replied simply, "though we might debate about the question if it is truly me who came to you or it is you who came to me. At the end, it doesn't matter. What really matters is, that we've finally met, Cuilánie."

"Why are you calling me like that?" she demanded. "It sounds stupid."

Gildor shrugged. "Nevertheless, it is your name. In Quenya, of course, but it's your name all the same."

"I don't do Quenya," she scowled. "Were you real, you would know that. Nor do I use contractions in my stories. You never talk like this when I write you."

"True, but we aren't in one of your stories," answered Gildor. "We are in your world now, at least partially – and I'm almost one of the Vanyar. We do adapt to knew tongues quickly. But if my use of contractions bothers you, I'll…" he stopped and corrected himself with that tight little smile again; "I _shall try to avoid them, Cuilánie."_

She rolled her eyes in exasperation. "Would you, please, stop calling me like that? I _hate my real name, you know."_

"I know," Gildor nodded, his usually icy eyes uncommonly gentle, "but that is what you are to me – to all of us whom you write about. _Cuilánie_. The Life-giver. You made us whom we are."

"Nah," she said, "that was the Professor. I only borrowed you to have some fun."

"You are very wrong in that," replied the Elf. "The Professor, as you call him, created us in the first place, that is true. But in his book, I was only some random Elf who came across the path of the Ringbearer and had not much to say. As Finch said, I am one of those rare Elves who not even have a footnote. You made me the Lord of Edhellond, gave me devoted followers, strength, dignity, a family tree – and my soul-mate. You gave me _life_."

She blinked a few times, thoroughly confused. There _was_ some truth in Gildor's words, of course, but…

"Where have you heard of Finch?" she finally asked, and at that, the Elf actually laughed – it was a very pleasant sound.

"Are you not the one who keeps telling that I would read all your posts over your shoulder? Are you not dwelling in the South Haven, under the very roof you have created for me yourself? I know everything," here he actually twinkled at her, "even those things you are discussing with Lossefalme in your secret messages."

At that, she blushed furiously, for their jokes could get a little… smutty sometimes. Especially when they included Gildor. The usually so cold and pale face of the Elf showed genuine amusement.

"Worry not," he soothed her. "You could not possibly insult me. I am your creation, after all. Ever since the mortals rediscovered the Books after that… thing you call a movie, I have been reading a lot. I must say, most of what I saw concerning my not so humble self was nothing short terrifying. For a long time, I either have been ignored, for I can only be found in the Books, or I have been portrayed as an unhewn, brainless lustling. Then you came and made me what I am now. More than that – you brought other people to see me the way you do. And write about me in a manner that I find pleasant. So, what are a few raunchy jokes compared with the riches you have given me?"

"But what are you doing here?" she asked, still very much at loss. Gildor shrugged again.

"I came to celebrate," he said. "I know that you are having a tough time right now and need some cheering up. We are one day away from the Spring Festival, after all."

"I know not if I should agree with that," she replied with a grin, getting into the spirit of the whole thing. "I do remember how you celebrated the Autumn Festival with poor Erestor, you know."

"That", answered Gildor with a royally arched eyebrow, "was _your_ idea, if I remember correctly. Besides, you are _not Erestor – even though you managed to take my nephew from me to marry him to that oaf."_

"That was Lindir's wish," she said defensively. Gildor shook his golden head in amusement.

"As if we could do anything that you wish us not to do."

"Oh, yes!" she said, empathically. "You do it all the time. All of you. And _you, my dear Lord Gildor, especially."_

Gildor seemed honestly surprised by that.

"Really?" he asked. "In that case you must be a better scribe than even you imagine. All the better for us – we can have much more fun this way."

She eyed him suspiciously again. "What do you have on that devious Finwëan mind of yours?"

To her shock, the Elf leaned forward and laid his soft lips on hers for a moment. He tasted of some elusive sweetness that she never encountered before.

"I intend to make all those little jokes of yours true," he murmured. But she stood and stepped outside of his reach.

"This is not real," she said with a bitterness that surprised even her. "When I turn off my computer, you will vanish – and I will have to return to the outside world once again."

"You cannot avoid that," Gildor agreed. "But I shall not vanish when you bring that noisy box to silence. I do not live in it. I live in the Books, in your notices… and in your heart."

He touched the green button and the computer screen went dark. Then he swept her into his arms without any effort, and she shrieked.

"Put me down! I'm too heavy."

"For a mortal, mayhap," he answered with his customary Finwëan haughtiness. "But I am Gildor Inglorion of the House of Finrod, the Lord of Edhellond and leader of the Wandering Company. I fought in the Last Battle upon Dagorlad and pulled Erestor from the very jaws of the werewolves. I could run with you in my arms to Imladris and back again… yet I suggest that we indulge in more pleasant activities. Where is the wine?"

"I don't drink wine," she said, still struggling a little. "It makes my stomach hurt."

"Not my vintage, it will not," Gildor declared. "I shall see that it will be delivered at once. And since your world knows no true minstrels, mayhap we can use that other box in your bedchamber I have heard producing music before?"

She didn't need much thinking to realize that he meant her CD-player. "How do you know what I have in my bedroom?"

"Ai, I beg you!" Gildor rolled those sea-hued eyes of his. "You write your tales in practically every room in your house. Where ever you do it, I get to know the room."

That made her blush again, for indeed, she tended to write in the most unusual places of her flet at times.

"All right," she said hurriedly, "I can make the box produce music. Just put me down, would you? Hanging from your arms makes me a little dizzy."

"You are going to be more than a little dizzy," he promised with an infuriating grin. "And may I suggest that you write something in your bathtub next time?"

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The end – for now.

**Notes:**

The names are from the Quenya Lapselarma website:

Since they only had English names, I was forced to use my real name.


	2. Two: Boromir

**Strange Encounters**

**Of a Frustrated Fanfic Author**

**by Soledad**

**Disclaimer: All the characters – except the main heroine – belong to Professor Tolkien. I'm just borrowing them for a while to play.**

**Rating: PG, for this part.**

**Author's notes: **

These independent little chapters have very little to do with my regular stories, except the fact that the Tolkien-characters appearing here will behave the way they do in my other writings. None of this is supposed to be taken seriously. :)

**Dedication: To Archet, my sister-in-arms when it comes to Boromir-lusting. Here's your Preciousssss, girl… g**

**Two: Boromir**

Things were still not going well for our Frustrated Fanfiction Author (still referred to as FFA, though after the latest flame she considered changing her ID into _Very Frustrated Actor). Not only has she been flamed – again! – but the Valar granted her what she wished for most: they put an end to the invasion of the plotcritters._

They sent the little buggers hibernate.

All of them.

Permanently.

Which was a rather unlucky turn of events, since the Most Important Story our FFA was working on feverishly (also known as The Great Boromir Epic) came to a crashing halt as well.

She only realized this when it was already too late to attach a little footnote to her constant prayers to the Valar. Which realization only made her even more depressed. Understandably.

"I hate my life," she declared to the universe in general, since no-one was listening anyway. Which – considering that she didn't actually _have a life in the first place – was a rather strange thing indeed. But she couldn't care less. Her once-faithful readers had abandoned her for months, and she didn't seem able to gain new ones, meaning that she had no reviews for quite some time. And everyone knows what no reviews mean to the fragile ego of an author. No reviews were almost worse than flames. Almost._

"Why in Middle-earth have I begun to write about you?" she continued her incoherent conversation, this time aiming her ramblings at a screen cap of Sean Bean, in full Boromir attire, though blissfully having dark hair, thank to the clever fingers of one Archet who wielded mouse and keyboard with magical talent. "I don't even _like_ that darn movie!"

"You liked me even less in the Books," the rich voice of Gondor's Heir answered, and Boromir moved out of the shadows. After Gildor's recent visit she wasn't that surprised to see him, though she'd expected him to come through the computer screen.

"You look…different," she managed to get out, after giving the manly Man a good, hard look (and secretly wiping the drool from her chin. Boromir shrugged. In fact, he looked _a lot_ like Sean Bean with a dark wig, though his features were considerably more elegant. After all, he _did_ have a thin trail of Elven blood from both his parents' side.

"That is because you cannot decide whether you want me as Sean Bean or as that fake Celeborn, clad all in black," he replied morosely. "I wish you would make up your mind – 'tis really frustrating."

"As if you didn't know."

"I do," Boromir agreed, checking his manly appearance in the tall, narrow, wood-framed mirror in the hall. "Actually, Sean Bean with a dark wig does the trick for me just nicely – save one detail. I cannot remember it being written in the Books that I would have such a long nose. 'Tis undignified. Had people never heard that I was called 'Boromir the Fair'? Or do they think it meant that I was actually _blonde?"_

"Obviously, Peter Jackson did," she pointed out mercilessly. "But you really don't have any reason to complain. At least he made you a likeable character. You got several very nice scenes in the movie."

"Likeable?" Boromir shot her an exasperated look. "Did you not notice that there are most insulting tales about me – and dozens of those – where I am going mad, raping my companions (preferably Legolas), submitting to Aragorn like a street whore and having sex with the _hobbits_?"

"I _did notice it," she replied patiently. "That's why I started to write about you – to give you some justice."_

Boromir, however, was not so easy to persuade.

"You made me gay," he continued accusingly. "You even made me lust after my own brother."

"That was not me," she reminded him. "I borrowed the idea. And I got you out of that dilemma neatly, didn't I?"

"You should not accept gifts from Foul Dwimmerlaiks," he grumbled. "And I am not gay, you know. Granted, there were clashes on the field after battle, but that makes me not gay. Had the Great Maker let me live, I would have married and sired sons to take over after me."

"You had plenty of time to do so, and yet you did not," she shot back. "I don't understand why you are complaining. Are you so mismatched with Elladan? You even had children together in one AU."

He shuddered, his eyes darkening. "You should not remind me of my pregnancy. It was _not a pleasant experience."_

"I should have given you the Aragorn/Boromir cliché," she replied indignantly. "I made an Elf fall in undying love with you, saved your father, killed Aragorn for you – twice! – kept your buddy Théodred alive, and all you can do is to complain. I gave you three different lives. Pick one and be done with it."

"I don't want them," Boromir replied stubbornly. "I want a normal life, in customary Middle-earth fashion. Just like the Great Maker intended it to be."

She sighed and looked at him with great pity.

"My dear Boromir," she said, "you obviously don't understand. Your life will _never be the same again. Not after the movie. Now, go and ravish your Elf, I have here things to do."_

Boromir opened his mouth to answer – then remembered all those horrible stories floating around the 'Net about him and shut up. She was right. All things considered, he was still best off with her.

The end – for now.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The story referred to here is "From the Other River Bank" from Dwimordene, which inspired my whole Boromir series. Spoilers to my story "Annúminas" are throughout in this little insanity.


	3. Three: Lindir

**Strange Encounters**

**Of a Frustrated Fanfic Author**

**by Soledad**

**Disclaimer: All the characters – except the main heroine – belong to Professor Tolkien. I'm just borrowing them for a while to play.**

**Rating: PG, for this part.**

**Author's notes: **

These independent little chapters have very little to do with my regular stories, except the fact that the Tolkien-characters appearing here will behave the way they do in my other writings. None of this is supposed to be taken seriously. :)

**Dedication: To all those who love Lindir… and who does not? g**

Three: Lindir 

Things were going from bad to worse for our Frustrated Fanfiction Author (aka FFA as you certainly know by now). She was bitten by a brand new plotcritter, and the strange poison released into her system forced her to produce endless amounts of chapters based on the Great Maker's earliest writings, which – naturally – say quite the diagonal opposite of about everything that appears in the later mythology. Which left her practically brain dead from all that research.

Then she made some stupid mistakes, lost a friend as a result and developed a barely controllable hunger for both unhealthy food and reviews. Exclusively positive ones, of course, for despite all hypocritical declarations, the only reviews that  authors truly like to get are the positive ones. Some are just more willing to admit this than others.

Being depressed means for an author that their addiction to praise grows exponentially. It's like hobbits and mushrooms – the more they get of those, the more they lust after them. The end result being an upset stomach or shameless wallowin' in deep, honest self-pity. Depending whether you are a hobbit or an author.

Mushrooms not being an alternative, FFA was lying on her stomach in the bedroom, munching listlessly on some chocolate bunnies left from Easter, lacking the energy to even switch the TV on – when it happened.

She hadn't have any more visitors from her own little corner of the Ardaverse for quite some time, so when the slender, quiet figure with pointy ears, pale blond hair and sea-hued eyes noiselessly appeared right in front of the open window, she first thought the chocolate might have gone wrong due to the recent heat wave, causing her hallucinations. But no matter how many times and how strongly she blinked, the beautiful and extremely cute Elf didn't disappear.

"So, I guess you're here for real," she said. The Elf gave her a shy smile.

"It seems so," he agreed, "though I know not how I got here. In one moment, I was sitting peacefully in Imladris, playing my flute, in the other moment I found myself standing here."

"No blinding light, no portal, no nothing?" she asked, a little disappointed. Lindir shook his head.

"Nay… mayhap 'tis because we minstrels can walk in other people's dreams."

"So, does it mean that I'm dreaming now?" she asked. Lindir shrugged.

"I know not. But I do know that minstrels are not sent to people without a reason."

"For what reason? To pester me because I'm still stuck with your story?" she felt positively hostile. Plotcritter bites were painful sometimes, and they healed very slowly. Especially poisoned ones.

Lindir looked around in astonishment. "What a strange place!" he said. "No wonder you need to escape to us at times. I could not live in such narrow little holes."

"You are an Elf," she pointed out, not all too friendly. "I happen to like my apartment. So, why have you come?"

Lindir sat down on the bed and smiled hesitatingly. "I think they sent me because you are in need of some comfort," he offered with his customary honesty. "Actually, I heard that Uncle Gildor was planning to visit you, but Glorfindel said you would need someone nicer than him. Then they had a very... educated fight, with many biting remarks, and since Erestor was covered with paperwork, I simply slipped out of the house, and… and ended up here," he finished, a little embarrassed.

She laughed, despite her foul mood. "You are very cute when you are blushing," she said.

"I know," Lindir replied amiably, "you wrote me that way, and the others seem to like it. So… want to cuddle?"

She laughed again. "What would Erestor say?"

"Nothing, I deem. We would not have each other without you," Lindir pointed out reasonably. "Besides, 'tis just cuddling." Without waiting for her answer, he toed off his light shoes and curled up next to her, snuggling close and pillowing his head on her arm.

When she awoke in the next morning, he was gone. But her pillow still had the scent of forest and autumn flowers.

The end – for now


	4. Four: Elrond

Strange Encounters

Of a Frustrated Fanfic Author

**by Soledad**

**Disclaimer: All the characters – except the main heroine – belong to Professor Tolkien. I'm just borrowing them for a while to play. Lord Fergolad belongs to Cirdan (the writer, not the character, of course).**

**Rating: PG, for excessive drooling over Elrond. The _book_-version of him.**

**Author's notes: **

These independent little chapters have very little to do with my regular stories, except the fact that the Tolkien-characters appearing here will behave the way they do in my other writings. None of this is supposed to be taken seriously. :)

**Dedication: To Gemma, who wanted Lord Elrond.**

Four: Elrond 

Life was a constant source of misery for our Frustrated Fanfiction Author (FFA as before). Not enough that she'd lost another friend (for reasons she still failed to understand) and that her work remained as good as unnoticed while others got applauded and awarded and complimented beyond measure in the writing community, oh no! The latter didn't particularly surprise her, to tell the truth. Her genius was rarely appreciated – most people simply couldn't recognize it for the rare gem it truly was, others were simply jealous.

Only a handful of her close friends took the occasional effort and tried to open the eyes of the ignorant masses with proper praise and enthusiasm – and little result. The unwashed masses had lower interests, preferring the clichéd "insert Elf A into Elf B and screw plot and characterization" sort of stories. Or rapefics. Or blatant self-inserts. The rest was frightened by her unique talent or envious, so if they reviewed her groundbreaking work at all (which was rare enough), they kept nitpicking; pointing out that single typo in a 37-page-chapter that had somehow escaped both the spellchecker and the beta reader. Or finding nonexistent canon errors.

"Idiots!" she fumed, deleting the anonymous review of the last nitpicker with vengeance – the reviewer was mistaken, of course (she'd done her homework, as always, consulting all volumes of HoME and both Tolkien encyclopaedias, of the weight of eight pound each, not to mention her mailing lists and countless online resource pages), but it irritated her when her review board was littered with stupid mistakes like that. It was aesthetically insulting. "Stupid, petty, nitpicking idiots! They should check their sources before they molest someone who has more talent under the nail of her pinkie finger than they have in their airheads counted together. Why can't they go and bother someone who really _does write crap? Why does it always have to be me?!?"_

She felt _so sorry for herself (well, nobody else did, so she had to handle the issue on her own). But she had no idea that her trials had only begun. For on the next day she had a computer breakdown. Well, only her viewscreen did actually break, but that was bad enough. No chance to contact her mailing list. No chance to access her database. No chance to work on her unfinished stories. No chance to do _anything_._

And, of course, all this happened on a Thursday evening. She had to wait until next day to ask for help. Maintenance guy took the viewscreen away on Monday evening (no work on weekends, of course). Now it was Thursday again, and she was near to screaming hysterics. A whole week of her working holiday wasted, and no chance to tell when she'll be able to go online again. Internet cafés were rare and crowded with pre-teen kids on holidays that spent their whole day to play Tomb Raider or war games. And, of course, her Internet provider (not exactly a cheap one) won't pay her back the money for the time she hadn't been able to use her access. Which meant that she'd paid a nice sum of money for nothing.

It was frustrating beyond belief.

"I can't understand why the Fates hate me so much," she murmured, switching off her TV as her video recorder refused to swallow the tape of her choice. No escape to the depths of the Trek-universe, either. Another stupid piece of equipment on its way to breakdown. Great. Just great.

"That is a question I often ask myself as well," a deep, wonderfully musical but unmistakably male voice answered. She jerked her head towards its source – and nearly fell off the couch from sheer surprise.

In the old, over-stuffed armchair before the open window sat the most unique creature she could ever imagine. No, that was wrong. Her imagination _never managed to create something like this man. She __did have a vivid imagination (what other fun did an underpaid female employee have), but way not enough to create such a marvel._

The man in her grandmother's armchair was tall and broad-shouldered, with long, slender limbs and ever-so-slightly pointed ears, which clearly indicated that he was actually an Elf – or, at the very least, had _some_ Elven blood in his veins. His pale, oval face was noble and beautiful and ageless, neither old nor young, but despite the youthful smoothness of his elegant features, the memory of many things, both glad and sorrowful, was written among them. Those large eyes were grey as a clear winter evening, shining brighter than any star she'd ever seen, and the elegantly arched eyebrows above them were fine like those of a Chinese silk painting. His heavy mass of hair was dark like the starless light and glossy like the finest silk, flowing down his back like black water and a few fine tresses moving weightlessly in the slight evening breeze, forming almost a halo around his head.

But it was the Ring on one long-fingered hand that finally gave him away. A beautiful Ring with a deep blue stone. Vilya, the greatest of the Three.

"Lord Elrond," she whispered in utter respect. A friendly banter with Gildor Inglorion was one thing, but this was _Elrond_. Elrond Half-Elven, hero of the Second Age, greatest lore-master of the Third Age, the most important Elf in the Books – at least in her opinion.

The Master of Imladris tilted his head to the side with a faint smile. "You seem surprised, Lady Scribe."

"I am," she admitted. "I started to get used to the visits from Middle-earth, but I never counted on _you_."

"Why not?" Elrond asked. "After all, you always treated me with respect."

She became beet red, coughing a little. "Well, I must admit that I got carried away with the Elrond/Legolas cliché. I've tried to eradicate that thread, I honestly have, but it would collapse the whole structure of my Third Age stories, and… Lord Elrond, I am so very sorry!"

"You got under the spell of your own creation, just like that poor, mislead Celebrimbor," replied Elrond with an elegant shrug. "Things like that happen, and they are extremely difficult to change afterwards… if ever. We, Ring-bearers, should know."

"So you are not mad at me?" she asked hopefully. Elrond shook his head, tucking a few errant strains of his famous hair back under the delicate _mithril circlet he was wearing upon his brow. It looked the movie item surprisingly similar._

"Nay, I rather enjoy the tales you spun around my household. At least you have paid my Lady the attention and respect she so richly deserves, instead of eradicating her from my life. And," he added with e mischievous twinkle in those long, elegant eyes, "even though I never had any true interest in Legolas – not the sort of interest that would make him end up in my bed anyway – at least you did not make a blonde bimbo out of him."

"You adapt to the vocabulary of our time quickly, my Lord," she said in surprise. Elrond shrugged again, grinning.

"I _do live in your magic box, after all. I have been confronted with many tales about a balding, foul-tempered person with strange eyebrows who, for some unfathomable reason, wore my name and, even more strangely, was able to make people believe that he was I. Or that his decadent dwelling place was my beloved Imladris," he shook his head in exasperation. "Do people of your Age not know that I have built Imladris as a __fortress? How could anyone ever defend a settlement with houses open to all weathers and all directions? Cannot people make any difference between the elegant and the decadent? We might have been a fading people in the Third Age, but we certainly were __not fading in the Second, when Imladris was founded!"_

"This is the effect of the movies, my Lord," she murmured, ashamed by the realization that she, too, had fallen for that dreamland look in her first stories – until she decided to change all the descriptions, which she still had to do. "The more people abandon reading, the more they fall for the visuals prepared for them. And since the Shire Had been realized so excellently, even those of us who _did know the Books by heart became mislead for a while."_

"No need to apologize," the Elf-Lord winked generously. "At least you realized your mistake – and you never portrayed me as a depressed old Elf who is losing his hair, hates Men and tries to blackmail his daughter into sailing to the West." He gave a rather undignified snort. "As if I would try to keep a daughter like _that! My beloved Arwen was seriously considering releasing a particularly destructive spell over New Zealand after seeing the second movie, you know. As a female descendant of Lúthien she could have caused serious havoc, and Celebrían needed days to talk her out of it. She was furious."_

"Well, I'm not the only one who won't accept your movie alter ego… or hers," FFA pointed out, feeling a little uncomfortable by the grim satisfaction that appeared on Elrond's face, contemplating all the havoc his _only daughter could have caused. "There is that other author who conceived the idea of your wonderful hair… I'm sure that as an Elf you'd appreciate _that_."_

"Ai, bless me!" Elrond rolled those incredible eyes. "She did not show me as old and ugly, I give her that. But I shall have you to know that I am not some big Elf-stud, as Isabeau, may the Valar bless her, has pointed out. It is _not my main concern whom I should drag to my bed for every single night, nor do I hand out tickets to the members of my household, so that the winner – or _winners_ – could be awarded with some thrust-and-grunt. Truly, if you believed those tales about me, you'd wonder how I was able to keep Imladris safe for an Age and a half!"_

"I do _not believe them," she assured him; "that's why I write you differently. Well… I'm trying anyway. Not always successfully, I must admit."_

"Oh, yea," Elrond laughed quietly, "the thing with Gildor was something of a surprise for me. Though the Gildor you have created is an intriguing person… and I was fairly young back then. I might have fallen for his youthful brashness. The thing with Gildor is, that he is so elusive. The Great Maker told so little of his true tale, that new scribes have a free hand with him."

"Are you interested in the art of writing, my Lord?" she asked, surprised by the turns of their conversation. Elrond smiled, very nearly causing her to swoon (though she did _not_ belong to the club of pervy Elrond-fanciers), for that smile was like the sunrise after a rainy day.

"I am a lore-master, Lady Scribe," answered the Lord of Imladris, " raised by one of the greatest minstrels of my people. _Of course_ I am interested in the art of writing. Alas, that there are so many who abuse the written word, just to share their perverted fantasies with the ones of the same kind."

She reddened again, remembering her occasional sins in that area. "I guess you are not very happy about what I've done with your son," she murmured ruefully. Elrond raised an elegant eyebrow.

"Nay, I am not," he replied bluntly. "But it seems _Elladan_ is quite content with the fate you gifted upon him. And contrary to what that… _movie says about me, I do not hate Men. My own brother chose to become one, after all, how could I hate or detest his descendants? Elladan could have done a lot worse," he thought for a moment, then added. "One day you ought to do something for that poor Isildur, Lady Scribe. He has been given such a bad reputation in these new tales, for no or very little reason. By Elbereth, the Man was a hero, and look what those furies have done to him!"_

She cringed, seeing the wrath of the Elf-Lord rising. Elrond in rage was not something she really wanted to see, not in her own apartment. The elf helped to tear down the very walls of Barad-dûr, for God's sake, what resistance could a 30-year-old concrete building offer?

"I do what I can," she promised nervously.

"You can do very much," answered Elrond sternly. "This campaign you have started… to tell the tales of the Dúnedain…"

"The Dúnadan Project?" she injected helpfully, and the Elf-Lord nodded.

"Yea, that thing. It ought to have at least _one_ tale about Isildur and his great deeds. "The Man deserves it – and more – even though he made a grave mistake at the end. HE paid for that mistake with his life. 'Tis time to clean his name."

"It's not that easy," she reminded her noble visitor. "The other… scribes chose the Dúnadan Lords they write about freely. I can't order them which tale they should write."

Elrond arched that fine eyebrow again. "Then you have to tell the tale of Isildur yourself," he riposted mercilessly. "I fear I must insist – should you want that I forgive you for pairing me up with poor Legolas."

She shot him a baleful look. "You are worse than Gildor."

"I certainly hope so," replied Gildor with an expression on that noble face of his that only could be described with the word 'smug'. "I am older than he, and even though he would not recognize my claim as Gil-galad's her, as you wrote, I could beat him any time."

"You mean out-smart him, don't you?" she asked. Elrond considered that for a moment.

"I believe I do," he finally decided, "though 'beating him' sounds better. I still cannot believe that you have made us _lovers_."

"That was before Celebrían," she defended herself. "Would you be happier if I went for the Gil-galad thing?"

Elrond shuddered visibly. "Have mercy with me, Lady Scribe. That is almost as bad a cliché as my so-called torrid affair with Legolas… if not worse. Please believe me if I tell you that Ereinion and I were naught else but friends. Good and very close friends, that is true, and I shall always be grateful for that, for I never had a true friend before him. But. We. Were. Not. Lovers. Not willingly, not forced by him, not by seduction, not in any way." He looked at her accusingly. "I know that you are still toying with the idea. I _have_ read that AU of yours."

"I can't help it," she admitted in shame. "It's all because of Julian Mc Mahon. Ever since I selected him as _my_ Gil-galad, I find the good King irresistible. Julian would make a fabulous Gil-galad."

"Nay, he would not," said Elrond indignantly. "He has a long nose. I would _never fall for a long nose." He blushed slightly, realizing just what he had revealed by that, and added hurriedly. "'Tis a matter of taste, you know."_

She grinned evilly. "So, you _did_ fall of Gil-galad, after all!"

"I had a… slight crush on him," Elrond turned an interestingly deep shade of magenta, "but I never acted on it! And it was over, long before I fell in love with Celebrían," he gave her another insulted look. "Why do you scribes have to dig out all our shameful little secrets?"

"Because most readers are such suckers for angsty romance," she countered with a grin, enjoying thoroughly her minor victory over the intimidating Elf-Lord. "Too bad you dislike Julian's nose so much. I guess you prefer Lord Fergolad, then."

"Nay," replied Elrond in suspicious hurry, "he belongs to my movie alter ego, thank you very much. Our tastes are rather… different."

"In that case you'll have to put up with _my_ version of Gil-galad," she pointed out gleefully. Elrond sighed.

"It seems so, does it not? Well, aside of the nose, he is not that bad. But is it truly necessary for me to become intimate with him? I have been given more bed-mates in these tales than any Easterling chieftain – I am growing tired of the whole thing. I used to be a warrior and have been a healer and a lore master, why are people not interested in my truly important deeds? All they want to know is whom I share my bed with… and to _watch_," he added with obvious disgust. She shrugged apologetically.

"Ours is a voyeuristic culture, my Lord. But I'll try to remain discreet, whatever the outcome of my Gil-galad tale may be."

"You were _not very discreet when it came to the married life of Erestor and Lindir," said Elrond with a frown. "Therefore, I cannot be sure that you will keep your promise."_

She laughed. "Oh, but giving them those smutty little moments was not _my idea!"_

"Was it not? Whose idea _was_ it then?"

"Lindir's," at Elrond's unbelieving look, she shrugged and explained. "He came to me and told me that he might be an innocent at heart, but he was also very much in love and could not live on music and gentle words alone. He was fed up with Erestor being so considerate and always afraid of hurting him." She grinned. "It seems he's sold that innocent act rather successfully to all of you. But let me tell you: he can be wonderfully nasty if he chooses to."

"I am beginning to believe it," Elrond rose from his seat. "Well, Lady Scribe, it has been a delight to talk to you, but I have to take my leave now. My Lady is growing impatient, and it would not be proper to neglect her after we have been apart so long."

She nodded. "Give my regards to the Lady Celebrían. I always had great respect for her."

"We know," Elrond smiled again. "She asked me to tell you that she is enjoying her adventures in Elvenhome greatly; so does the whole family actually. I suppose you intend to reunite us somewhere along the line?"

"Oh, but that would be telling, my Lord," she smiled back at him in false innocence. "I'm sorry, but you'll have to wait and see it for yourself, just like everyone else."

"Well, at the very least I shall be able to read the tale _before_ everyone else," to his credit, Elrond hid his slight disappointment well enough. "Blessings, Lady Scribe. May your plotcritters multiply and remain healthy, and may the Valar guard you on all your paths."

With that, he drew a strange symbol into the air with the hand that wore Vilya and was gone.

Our FFA sighed, counting the blessings of her computer-deprived time. So far, she had written 9 (nine!) chapters to 7 (seven!) different stories by hand in a mere week, out of sheer frustration, had done a lot of background research, visited a friend on the other end of the city to check her mail on his computer – _and received a visit from Lord Elrond, no less. All in all, it could have been a lot worse. She even managed to have the doctor check her eyes, after three years._

Still, the virtual isolation was getting to her. Maybe it was time to go to an Internet café and waste some money, after all.

The end – for now.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

**End note:**

I apologize by all people who happen to like the movie characters. No offence was intended – I'm simply exercising my right to dislike them and create my own image of the book characters.


	5. Five: Aragorn

STRANGE ENCOUNTERS

**Of a Frustrated Fanfic Author**

**by Soledad******

**Disclaimer: All the characters – except the main heroine – belong to Professor Tolkien. I'm just borrowing them for a while to play. **

**Rating: PG-13, for serious character bashing. _Movie_ character bashing, to be more accurate. If you like them, you should hit the Back button. Now.**

**Author's notes: **

These independent little chapters have very little to do with my regular stories, except the fact that the Tolkien-characters appearing here will behave the way they do in my other writings. None of this is supposed to be taken seriously. :)

**Dedication: To Gemma again, as nobody else voted for Aragorn.**

**FIVE: ARAGORN OF THE MANY NAMES**

After more than a week, or Frustrated Fanfiction Author (still dubbed as FFA) still hadn't got her computer screen back. She tread to sneak into the study of various Real Life friends, to be at least able to type up one or two of the nine chapters to the seven different stories she'd written by hand out of sheer frustration. But one of those friends was moving, the other had her computer in pieces, too, an uncle (FFA's last, best hope) was out of town, together with his laptop, and the only cousin with a working computer stubbornly refused to get the not-so-subtle hints she tried to get over.

By the way, this particular cousin (a jerk of extraordinary proportions) looked stunningly like Hugo Weaving, which was one of the reasons FFA hated movie-Elrond so much. Aside of the depressions and the balding thing, of course.

So, not seeing any way out of her misery, our FFA lay down on her bed and decided to watch an old Japanese Godzilla-movie on German TV. She always found these naively charming and utterly pointless pieces of filmography very relaxing.

Before the adorably clumsy radioactive monster of the week could set off to destroy Tokyo as it was their wont, however, the image of some agitated Japanese scientist and their ridiculous robot faded away, giving room to the pale face of a noble, dark-haired Man.

The age of the Man would have been hard to determine – he could well be of any age between thirty and sixty – and though he was somewhat grim to look upon, there was gentle wisdom in his clear, grey eyes… and a great deal of sorrow.

"Why do you hate me so much?" he asked in a troubled voice.

FFA grabbed the remote control, believing that she might have switched channels accidentally, but to no effect. In fact, the dark-haired Man stepped down from the now dark TV-screen and sat down into the very armchair where Lord Elrond had been sitting only a week earlier. He was very tall, more than six feet, wearing some rough green garb and knee-high boots of supple leather – the latter ones making her irritated, for she had wall-to-wall carpet in her rooms and didn't like people walking in with their shoes still on. She kept several pairs of slippers for her visitor's use for a reason!

"I don't know who you are," she said, highly annoyed, "but in case you don't know, I was watching 'Godzilla vs. Megalon', and I haven't invited anyone to drop by. Especially not in dirty boots."

"Strange," the Man shook his shaggy head. "You recognized the others at once. Is that because you have a strong image about them but none about me? Or is it because you hate me so much?"

She glared at him, frowning, recognizing the silver star upon his tunic, and the ugly truth began to dawn on her.

"Aragorn?" she asked uncertainly. The Man nodded.

"In the flesh… well, not exactly. In the flesh, I would look like Viggo Mortensen, I deem."

She closed her eyes. "Please. Spare me. That's _not_ the mental image I needed right now. What do you want of me anyway?"

"I want to know why you hate me," Aragorn replied. "You used to like me; actually, you _had liked me twenty-plus years ago. A lot."_

"That," she answered grimly, "was _before_ Viggo Mortensen."

"And you used to dislike Boromir," Aragorn pointed out mercilessly.

"That," she replied calmly, "was before _Sean Bean_."

Aragorn looked at her in surprise. "Are you telling me that you have changed your preferences just because of the people who portrayed the two of us in that… what do you call it…?"

"It's called a _movie. And no, it's not all about the actors. I'm not _that_ shallow, you know."_

"What _is it about, then?" Aragorn insisted. She shot him an annoyed look. She hated bullies._

"Does it matter?"

Aragorn rolled his eyes. "Of _course_ it matters! You have gotten me killed in your tales twice so far. And I want to know why!"

"Why does it bother you so much?" she asked, curious now, for it was obvious that it _did bother Aragorn a great deal. "I'm but a fanfic writer, and not even a big star as they go. You have your own groupies…"_

"My… what?" Poor Aragorn seemed utterly confused.

"Writers who are devoted to you and keep writing about you endlessly. You are either the saviour of Middle-earth, the wisest and most valiant Man who ever walked on this planet, or the big stud of Arnor and Gondor. Every other character worships at your feet – or wants to get into your pants – what do you need _me for?"_

She run out of breath. Aragorn looked at her gloomily. "You want the truth?" he asked. She nodded. "All right, the truth. The truth is, I am envious."

"Of what? Or whom?"

"Of the others you write about."

"Why is that? You do have hundreds of tales written about you."

"Nay," Aragorn corrected sadly. "Most of these tales are written about that whiny person who wants to escape his destiny, wants to send his betrothed to Valinor (though I tend to understand _that_ part, seeing the Arwen of those… movies), who falls into rivers for no apparent reason, and," he shuddered, "even has an intimate relationship with his horse. The person you call Viggogorn."

"I have _not created that name!"_

"But you keep using it. Frequently. And I will have you know that I am _not that… person. I was never intimate with Legolas. Or Boromir. Or Faramir. Or," and here he actually shivered, " with Elrond. Not to mention that the mere idea of approaching a _hobbit_ that way makes me gag. Just like that name."_

"And when, exactly, have I written anything like that about you?" she demanded indignantly. "Actually, I've kept you pretty much in-canon, except in the Mary Sue parody, but everyone was embarrassingly OOC in that one. So, I don't understand why are you complaining."

"You always make me look bad, just to let your precious Boromir shine," Aragorn replied in a tone that was dangerously close to whining. Obviously, his movie alter ego had rubbed off on him, after all.

She shrugged. "So I like Boromir better. Big deal. After the numerous times _he had been portrayed as a monster, he needed his own story. _And_ I feel for him and his father whom you put out of their jobs."_

"When you first read the Books – or for the second, third or fourth times, for that – you were on my side," said Aragorn. She nodded.

"True. But I am much older now. I've lost interest in perfect heroes. And I've grown to dislike people who get everything dropped onto their laps, just because they happened to be born in the right bed. Or because they managed to creep _into the right bed. So, I don't buy the Great Maker's values blindly any longer. Life experiences can do that to a person."_

"The Valar know how far I am from being perfect," muttered Aragorn. She looked at him without sympathy.

"The Valar aren't the only ones. But you do have a lot of writers on your side. Good ones, too, who write you according to the Books. Some of them, unlike me, are even celebrities as Third Age stories go, getting hundreds of gushing reviews. Why does it bother you that I'm not one of your groupies?"

Aragorn hesitated. "You have made the others look so interesting," he finally answered. "People who had but a few lines in the Books: Gildor… Erestor... Radagast… even Lindir. I am tired of being the spotless hero – or the Big Stud."

"You _are_ interesting enough in Isabeau's book," she said. "Or in Altariel's tales. And I could name a dozen other stories."

"Aye, but _your_ heroes become part of an intricate network of tales that spans over all Ages of Middle-earth," replied Aragorn. "I would like to be part of it, too."

She gave him a suspicious look. "Are you sure that's not just so that you hate being left out?"

"That, too," Aragorn admitted. "Being the King is lonely business, and one has very little fun. But in your tales people can escape for a while, to other stories or songs. I liked it when you let me make gingerbread cakes in 'Winter Solstice'. Even though I was only five."

"You see? I _do_ write nice things about you," she said. "I even intend to have you in 'Innocence'."

Aragorn arched an eyebrow. Having grown up in Elrond's house was not without certain consequences, it seemed. "That is not what I am talking about, and you know that."

"I know," she admitted, "but I can't promise you anything. Look… let's talk about this again, say, in six years."

"_Six_ years? What do you need six years for?"

"For getting Viggogorn out of my system," she explained grimly. "And several other things, born from a certain director's 'creativity'. _If_ I survive the third movie, that is. The second one made me hate just about everyone, except Gollum."

"_Gollum_?" Aragorn repeated in shocked disbelief. She shrugged.

"He was cool. But aside of him, I was pretty much sick of that movie. I'm surprised that bloodthirsty packs of enraged Wargs haven't invaded New Zealand yet, trying to prove that they are actually _wolves_, not some weird hybrids between cave bear and wild boar."

Aragorn looked at her intently. "You are petty, do you know that? A lot of people loved those… movies. Even the ones who had grown up with the Books."

"Fine," she riposted spitefully. "Maybe I _am_ petty. Maybe I _want_ to be petty. So what? People have every right to love those movies, just as I have every right to hate them. And I _do_ hate them: that balding Elrond with his mental problems, that girlie Arwen with her overbite, that fat, ugly and utterly idiotic Gimli, Legolas the blonde bimbo, Éowyn the anorexic wallflower, Saruman with his bad hairdo and uncut fingernails, the possessed Théoden, who miraculously got forty years younger after that ridiculous exorcism, Gríma the cheap creep who could never have mislead Théoden in the first place, Frodo who was constantly on drugs, if his rolled-up eyes and endless whining is any indication, Merry and Pippin as the token clowns, the blond and evil Faramir, Háma who was _not_ guarding Théoden's doors at all, the Elves at Helm's deep, Éomer with his three-day-stubble… now, have I forgotten anyone?"

Aragorn was speechless from the shock of seeing so much venom in one person (and a rather small one at that). She took a deep breath.

"Obviously not, though I neglected to mention the radioactive Galadriel, the miscast Celeborn, the arrogant and genderless Haldir, and no, I didn't like Gil-galad either. Now, begone! I want to watch this ridiculous movie now, and then I want to sulk some more!"

Aragorn fled in apparent panic, which filled her with evil satisfaction. She fetched some junk food, got seated in front of the TV again, and watched Godzilla stomping Megalon into the soil with a broad grin. Life was a little more endurable now, that she had the chance to spoke her mind once again, without drooling fans of Lego-lass and Viggogorn screaming bloody murder.

Now if she could get her computer screen back, soon!

The end – for now.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Again, my apologies to those who liked the movies. I found the first one, well, acceptable, even though it butchered some of my formerly beloved characters in my eyes. However, I was completely enraged by the plot violations of the second movie, and I'm looking forward to the third one with utter dread.


	6. Six: Gollum

Strange Encounters

Of a Frustrated Fanfic Author

**by Soledad**

**Disclaimer:** All the characters – except the main heroine – belong to Professor Tolkien. I'm just borrowing them for a while to play. The Orc-cookies belong to Earonn.

**Rating:** PG, for some disgusting mental images, concerning bad food.

**Author's notes:**

These independent little chapters have very little to do with my regular stories, except the fact that the Tolkien-characters appearing here will behave the way they do in my other writings. None of this is supposed to be taken seriously. :)

This particular chapter has been co-written with Jenn (aka Tolk Anon M-S). Most of the Gollum parts are written by her.

**Dedication:** To dear Jenn, my co-conspirator and Gollumspeak expert.

Six: Gollum 

Our Frustrated Fanfiction Author (still FFA for those who know and dislike her) was at the end of her strength. Finally having been loaned a computer screen, she'd worked herself half-dead, crazy and bleary-eyed to make up for all the lost time. Thus when she finally switched off her computer (her 'Net provider ailing, she had been disconnected once again and was just generally fed up with everything), she stumbled over to the kitchen for some chocolate. It wasn't the best defense against a nervous breakdown, but the weather was too hot for baking some of Earonn's famous Orc-cookies.

Then, just when she opened the fridge, it hit her again like a brick wall.

That hideous stench.

She swore in Romanian – a language she'd learned in her childhood but from which she had retained only the bad words. It could not be! Just the previous evening, she'd finally found that small, forgotten package of mouldering yeast that had gone almostliquid in its utter loneliness. She had tossed it out and disinfected the whole fridge. So what the _hell_ was stinking now?

She sniffed around the practically empty fridge. This time, the stench was different. The whole kitchen smelled of rotten fish. Plus, she realized, though light was still coming from the kitchen lamp, it had taken on that slightly surreal quality that always signalled another unannounced visitor from Middle-earth.

This sign, combined with the smell of rotten fish, could lead to only one conclusion.

"Gollum," she said with deceiving mildness, "where are you hiding? Come out, or I swear I'll put you into the oven and turn up the heat!"

Of course, with temperatures over 35°C, that was highly unlikely. Not to mention the fact that the gas oven was almost 30 years old, and it would have taken some time and complicated measures to heat it up enough to bake a light biscuit. But Gollum didn't know that.

"Come out," she repeated sternly. "I'll turn off the lamp, but I don't want you lurking around in my kitchen unseen. Besides, you stink."

Switching off the kitchen lamp was not a big deal, really. For the last month or so, the electricity plant had decided to bless the city with street illumination of an ungodly bright yellow. As she lived on the second floor, she almost could read by it. On the other hand, this condition made it necessary to let the Venetian blinds down every night, successfully shutting out not only the unpleasant light, but also the last ounce of air that somehow might have found its way into her room.

She was _not happy about that, either._

"Gollum," she said, turning off the lamp, her voice taking on a slightly threatening tone, "this is my last warning!"

There was some noise in the darkened kitchen, a slithering movement across the kitchen floor. Then two large, bulbous, pale eyes peered over the rim of the small carton boxes that she kept under the kitchen table for lack of a better storage place.

A plaintive voice, muffled slightly by the cardboard, whimpered, "We wantsssssss to see the new monitor. Pretty, it isssss, yesssssss? We swimsssss acrossssss Big Waterssss to find it. Can we seessssss it now? Pleassssssssse?"

Our FFA frowned. How would Gollum know about her monitor problems. Immediately suspicious – her mind might be half-gone from the heat, but her survival instincts were still intact – she fixed her gaze on the creature's face and asked in a tone that brooked no dawdling:

"Who told you I had a new monitor?"

Gollum gulped, then smiled disarmingly. Damn, but the little bugger was charming… in a fishy way.

"Jenn sayssssss you have nicesssss monitor. Sayssss I should go look inside it – uh – look AT it! Yessssss, that'sssss it! Look at it, we will! Just looksss, we will! No touchesessssss!  Nice Writer Lady letsssssss ussssss just look, yessss?"

And then his voice changed. Gone was the childlike pleading, replaced by a harsh, mocking tone. He was addressing himself, or it seemed, for he was looking, not at our FFA, but to the empty air on his right.

"'Nice Writer Lady? Hah! She won't let usssss see the monitor. Knowssssss what'sssssss insssssssside it, she doesssssss. We hassss to takessssssss it from her, sneaky-like! And then we SMASHESSSSSSSS it! And we TAKESSSSSS THE PRECIOUSSSSSS!"

He mimed swiping something out of the air, as if he were snagging a particularly juicy fish in midleap, and chuckled in a most unpleasant fashion.

Just as quickly as it had vanished, the pleading voice returned. Gollum now spoke to another mid-air point, this one on his left.

"No! No! No! Likesssss the Writer Lady, we doessssss! If Gollum isss good, maybe she writesssssss ussssss our own story. Not nasssssty storiesessssssss, like Tolkienssssss. Nice storiessss, with fishesesssss for Gollum. And no tricksy Hobbitsessss that makessss usssss fall into the nasssssty lava! Noooo! Nice Writer Lady will give Gollum the Precioussss and put nasty Hobbitsessss and Menssss and Elvesessss in the lava! Yessssss! Hee hee!"

And he began to leap about, clapping.

Or would have, had he not hit his head on the underside of the table. The pain seemed to jar something loose inside that same head, as he now looked to his right and adopted the sneering tone he'd used only moments before.

"Givesssssss _usssss the Preciousssssss? Hah! Writer Lady wantssss the Precioussssss! Keep it for herssssself, she will, to lure nassssty Elvesessss to her bedroom. Nassssssty Elvesesssssss! Nasssssty Writer Lady!"_

Pleading again: "No!!! Nice Writer Lady said on the lissssst she will write story about Gollum. Nice story, yessssssss!"

Sneering: "Liessssss! All liessssss, it isssss! Nassssty Writer Lady wantsssss to trick ussssss, make usssss go back to Jenn without the Preciousssssss! Punish usssss, Jenn will!"

Pleading while holding hands over his ears: "No, no, no! Jenn wantsssssss to rule the lissssssst, she doessssss! The Preciousssss is insssssside the monitor, she saysssss. Breakssssss the monitor – that'ssssss all we hasssss to do! And then Gollum keepsssss the Precioussssss! She promissssssssed…."

Our FFA listened with morbid fascination to Gollum's debate with himself. The hissing fit between Flotsam and Jetsam gave her the general idea of the evil plot running behind her back. Now she knew what her black-hearted list mod was up to – and there was very little she could do to prevent the takeover from happening. Unless…

"Gollum," she said calmly, "Jenn has lied to you. There is no Precioussssss in my monitor, or it would never break down in the first place. Do you think Preciousssssss is so easy to break?"

Gollum tilted his head to the side and looked up to her, moving his bulbous eyes like a surprised chameleon.  "No Precioussssssss?" he asked sadly.

FFA shook her head. "I'm sorry. You have swum across the salty Sea for nothing." _One would think it could at least wash you clean, she added in thought, but of course, with the pollution of the ocean and all that it was not surprising the poor creature stank._

Gollum collapsed on the kitchen floor in utter despair. "No Preciousssss!" he sobbed. 

FFA almost reached out to pat his head – granted, Gollum was wicked, but also pitiful in his devastation. And the poor creature had been lied to and cheated yet again. But then she remembered the stench and pulled back her hand just in time.

"No Gollum, no Precioussssss," she said. "I'm afraid you'll have to go home with empty hands."

Gollum looked up at her again, in his best beggar mode. "Ssssssméagol not goessssss back to evil lady. We wantsssssss to stay here with Preciousssssss."

Had our FFA lived in a house with a garden, she might even have considered letting the little bugger stay. She was never interested in having pets, but the idea of Gollum living in the cellar of her jerk cousin's house, swimming in the garden pool at night and eating all the goldfish there had a certain… evil appeal.

Unfortunately, said jerk cousin (the same one who looked alarmingly like Hugo Weaving) lived in a small village outside the town. She'd need to travel two hours to somehow deliver Gollum there, and she had the gut feeling that getting into the bus or the tram with a naked, stinking and spitting creature in tow would rouse unwanted attention.

"I can't keep you here, Sméagol," she said with a little remorse. "See, this apartment looks to the southwest. Yellow Face looks in through the window all day. You'd be extra crispy in no time." _Not to mention that your stench would kill me even more quickly._

Gollum let his head hang sadly. "No Preciousssss," he repeated. "No nice nessssssst for poor Ssssssssméagol. Doesssss she have nice fishessssssss for us, my Precioussssss? Nice, cool fishesssssss, to strengthen usssssssss for long sssssssswim?"

FFA sighed. No she didn't have any fish in the fridge, and she wasn't particularly eager to hand out the tinned tuna flukes, either. But she couldn't send the poor little bugger on his way without any food.

She finally gave in. "I have something… similar," she said, opening two tins of tuna in brine and scraping it onto a plate she never intended to use afterwards. "Here, Sméagol, eat. I have more, should you still be hungry."

After watching Gollum stuff the dripping tuna chunks into his mouth with both (very dirty) hands, she doubted that she would be eating tuna again for a very long time anyway.

The end – for now


	7. Seven: Glorfindel

STRANGE ENCOUNTERS

**Of a Frustrated Fanfic Author******

**Disclaimer:** We don't own anything that has been created by Professor Tolkien. We just borrow everything for fun.

**Rating:** G

**Soledad's note:** Some of the regular readers of "Strange Encounters" have repeatedly asked for Glorfindel. Well, the good Elf-Lord has refused to visit me so far. But he _did_ visit my good friend Lasse-Lanta, and since we often share our plotcritters at Edhellond, she graciously agreed to post this wonderful little story as part of the series.

Enjoy!

**WRITER'S DILEMMA**

**By Lasse-Lanta**

It was only 8am and already the sun was heating the still late summer air. The atmosphere so humid you could ring the water from it. As I worked the soil of my garden slowly my tired senses became aware of the particularly pleasant song of birds in the woods at the edge of my yard. I stifled a gasp in startlement as I looked up and saw the beautiful creature that visits me on occasion, though it's been quite a while since his last appearance. He's tall and regal looking as he stands amid the green of the wood, blending with nature in his still calmness in the dappled shade. He beckons when he sees I've noticed him.

Great, he has such a talent for visiting when I look like crap, sweaty and covered in garden dirt.

"Hey, y'all." I give him the standard southern greeting as I walk into the cool of the shade. "Gildor, right?" I couldn't resist the dig.

Instead of the smart reply I expected the smile slid away from his sensuous lips and sadness settled in the dark blue of his eyes.

"Have I been gone so long you no longer know me?" He asked quietly.

I sighed heavily, yeah as if I could forget someone who niggled at my brain way too much; sometimes the humor was lost on them.

"No, no, I know it's you Glorfindel, just having a bit of fun."

"Fun... I see." He answered, but it was clear he didn't see the funny in it.

I stood looking at him, drinking in the sight. It's disgusting to be so gorgeous, wise, noble, unpretentious... and the best eye candy of the day.

Absently I began brushing dirt from my clothes and hands beginning to feel uncomfortable under his gaze. He doesn't mean anything by it, it's just the way of elves, but when someone so perfect gives you the once over you'd like to be in more presentable condition than I was presently, at the very least cleaner.

"So what brings you here this fine sunny day?" I asked finally.

He smiled then and turned to walk along the path into the woods caught my hand and pulled me along.

"Walk with me."

"Ok." Feeling self-conscience about my dirty hand; he didn't seem to mind so how could I refuse.

"I have come to tell you that others have missed your writing. I will help you conquer your writers block." His quiet melodious voice intoned.

"Have you been talking to Levade again?" I snickered. "I don't have writers block dear elf." He turned partially to me at the endearment, gave me a strange look but let it pass.

"I don't suffer from writers block but writer deprived of time. Plot bunny's hop merrily through my brain all the time I just can't get the time to get them on paper. Such it the stress of RL."

"RL?"

"Real life."

"Hmmmm, perhaps a vacation?" Was his suggestion.

"Nope, no can do, nada, to much on the plate."

"What language are you speaking this day?" He asked in annoyance. "It bears no resemblance to our converse in the past."

"Sorry," I grinned. "My list of duties is far too long for me to be able to take a vacation, that better?"

The Elf Lord was quiet for long minutes. "There must be a solution to this predicament, something that can be done to fetch you more time."

"How about a little kiss for inspiration?" It had just popped out, surprised me as much as it surprised him. It was that blasted 'Elf on a Shelf' website, with it's 'kiss an elf' section. The last time I visited there were all these exquisite elves but no Glorfindel, all because that damn movie chose to leave him out, what crap.

He stopped abruptly in his tracks at the suggestion and raised one finely shaped eyebrow in mimic of Elrond's quirk, I guess all that time together was rubbing off on him.

"Madam, you are married." He said simply.

"Yeah, he won't mind, it's all very innocent you know just research, besides he looks like you."

"Madam, your husband looks suspiciously like the Prince of Mirkwood, and I would mind were I he."

"Yes, yes, well it really is innocent and he sings like you do..." I said hopefully.

The tall Elven Lord sighed gently and looked as if I had asked for Asfaloth or something equally priceless.

"Don't be such a stick in the mud it's just a little kiss and don't call me madam, it sounds like I run a whore house."

He shook his head gently in disapproval, all that beautiful golden hair rippling around his shoulders making my knees weak at the sight.

"Oh for crying out loud, never mind. It's just that you said you were here to help and I'm sure it was Levade who asked for more writing about you. She's sweet and says such nice things and I hate to disappoint her.

"You know what my summer's been like." I continued, starting to get really worked up into a rant. " I haven't had two seconds to myself, no hikes in the mountains, no archery, no fencing. My house is torn to pieces for remodeling I can't find anything. It takes me a month to finish a book anymore, I've had only the garden for respite." I turned around quickly so that he wouldn't see the tears starting in my eyes.

"It's been work, work and more work..." I stopped suddenly as I felt gentle hands rest on my shoulders. They rubbed soothingly their strength reassuring.

I felt a little ashamed of the tirade, it's wasn't his fault and at least my monitor hadn't gone to shit, my computer hadn't crashed and I had a job, unlike some of my South Haven friends and their spouses.

"I'm sorry for unloading on you, I'm usually a very upbeat human, you know the glass is half full kind."

"You're speaking that strange language again, but I think I understand the meaning." He said softly. Then he leaned down and began to whisper to me, the warmth of his breath tickled my ear sending shivers down my spine.

"I, brought you the humming birds and the butterflies, not that upstart Gildor."

"Hey, careful, he runs the South Haven and the best group of people I've had the privilege with which to converse."

"Alright I'll give him that, but don't you think I care about you? You write so delightfully about me." I could feel the smile in his voice. "Look at the beauty of your flowers, delight in the birds and woodland creatures that grace your yard; and the season of falling leaves comes soon, is it not your favorite? Take joy in the little things, time and order will return to you again."

I couldn't answer him right away; I do have so much to be thankful for, even when I feel overwhelmed.

His hands turned me around to face him, the bright deep blue of his eyes sparkled with mischief. His fingers carefully wiped away the tears on my cheeks and before I could take another breath he leaned down and kissed me lightly on the lips.

"Happy now." He stated. "And I have a thought," his smile deepened as he drew two rather lovely elven swords from a pair of scabbards I had failed to notice before. "A little fencing practice?"

Oh this was definitely going to be interesting.

The end – for now.


	8. Eight: Legolas

**STRANGE ENCOUNTERS**

**Of a Frustrated Fanfic Author**

**by Soledad**

**Disclaimer: All the characters – except the main heroine – belong to Professor Tolkien. I'm just borrowing them for a while to play.**

**Rating: G**

**Author's notes: **

These independent little chapters have very little to do with my regular stories, except the fact that the Tolkien-characters appearing here will behave the way they do in my other writings. None of this is supposed to be taken seriously. :)

The old fanfic snipplets the characters are referring to actually existed once. Thankfully, they have been long destroyed.

**Apologies: to all wonderful authors who write about Legolas' family with _respect. I don't really think that Thranduil and his son would ever choose one particular setting – but our FFA really needed a serious ego boost. Poor woman had been through a lot lately._**

**Dedication: To Gemma, as nobody else asked for our favourite Wood Elf.**

**EIGHT: LEGOLAS GREENLEAF**

The mood of our Frustrated Fanfiction Author (for new readers – hopefully _lots of them g – still dubbed FFA), the general mood from frustrated changed to Royally Pissed™. The new school term had started, with all the insane paperwork, protectionism and nepotism as usual, and she got the worst curriculum of her entire professional life, including the obligation to work in the afternoons, too, at least twice a week, successfully hindering her to earn some extra money to her miserable salary. An old lady friend of her family died, the school kids behaved worse than ever, her online friends partially vanished through a black hole (yes, she wrote Trekfic, too), due to Real Life issues, and she still wasn't able to gain new readers. Which, for her weird sense of priorities (or the lack thereof) was the worst part of all._

So, after finishing four different teaching plans (which she would never be able to carry out), and adamantly refusing to care for the fifth, still unwritten one (there was still Sunday night, after all, and sleep was highly overrated anyway), she dropped onto the sofa, determined to check out next week's TV programme. One needed to cloud one's mind in order to endure the sheer pain of existence.

At that very moment, someone knocked on the door of her apartment. Which was a strange thing in itself, as no-one but the neighbours had access to the _corridor in the first place (it had a front door that they kept closed all the time), and they would usually ring the doorbell. Still, it could always be that the blind lady from the opposite flat needed something and was too impatient to search for the buzzer. It happened sometimes. Too bad that aforementioned lady was a querulant and unable to tell anything in short, practical sentences._

Our FFA sighed, forcing herself to patience (one did not scream like a banshee at someone who needed help, at least not according to the standards of her family) and tore the door open.

The first look at her visitor very nearly caused her to faint on the spot.

Of course she recognized him at once. She had been a Legolas affectionado since she first read The Books some twenty years ago, long before the species known as "fangirl" invaded the Tolkienverse. And the tall, handsome Elf standing on her doorstep was a truly wondrous sight to behold.

Meaning, that he had nothing common with the movie version. At all.

To admit the truth, he did not look _exactly_ like her imagination, either. Just like with Elrond, his true appearance was beyond her most vivid fantasies.

He had the high cheekbones and long, elegant eyes of a Sindarin aristocrat, but with the underlying, exotic wildness of the woodland folk in his sculpted features. Being the middle of November, his hair had a rich, dark brown colour with deep red highlights. His eyes, only slightly slanted to identify him as a Silvan Elf, were not green as in her tales – and most certainly _not blue – but bright and brown like polished chestnuts. And he seemed to be in a very good mood._

"Greetings, Lady Scribe," he said in a melodic voice that was deeper than she had expected, though. "May I come in? This floor is narrower than the tunnels under my father's palace – it makes me uneasy."

"Of course, Legolas," she said hurriedly, stepping aside to let him in. It didn't occur to her to call him "lord", as he had done wih Elrond. Despite being the son of a King, Legolas never made an issue of his high status. Not according The Books anyway, and that was the only reference she really needed.

"Thank you," the Prince of Mirkwood smiled, very nearly causing her to swoon.

She ushered him into the living-room, guessing that the Elf would feel trapped in the tiny adjoining study. Seven square metres were not even enough breathing room for a human being used to close quarters, not to mention for one of the woodland folk.

Legolas accepted the offered seat graciously and arranged his long limbs in the most elegant and graceful manner.

"Father sends his regards," he told her amiably. "He had intended to pay you a personal visit, but affairs of state hindered him, so he sent me instead."

She looked at him in suspicion. "Affairs of _state_? On Tol Eressëa?"

Legolas shrugged. "That is what Father said. Personally, I believe that he wanted to spend some time alone with Mother before Winter Solstice – why else would he send us all away on the most unusual errands?"

"_All of you?" She asked in surprise. "How many of you are there actually?"_

"Why, six, of course," answered Legolas with a smile and a shrug. "You gave me three brothers and two sisters, did you not?"

"Of course I did," she replied, a little impatiently. "What I want to know is how many of you are there for _real_."

Legolas laughed again, but now there was sorrow in his voice.

"There are only Father and myself for real – as real as our existence is. The Professor, as you call him, gave us no other family. So, after having read many a tale spun around us, Father and I simply _chose_."

"And you chose _my settings?" she asked, finding it hard to believe. There were many other stories, a lot more popular than hers, that showed the royal family of the Greenwood in an equally positive light._

Legolas nodded. "We did."

"Why? Why mine? Why not Jasta's or TreeHugger's or the other ones' that are far more widely read and still handle you with respect? Those tales are wonderful and sweet and well-written. Mine are dark and gritty, most of the time."

"Well," Legolas said with an amused twinkle in those incredible eyes," to tell the truth, for me it was the hair. You know that Elves are attracted to beautiful hair, do you not?"

"Of course I do. But all other writers give you beautiful hair," she pointed out reasonably.

Legolas scowled – it was an extremely drool-worthy sight. He looked positively cute, but she had a good instinct for self-preservation and didn't tell him. The Elf's next words showed just how right she had been with that.

"Nay, they give me Orlando Bloom's wig!" Legolas exclaimed. "I hate being described as… what do you mortals call it? As a 'blonde bimbo'."

"But your father _does_ have golden hair," she reminded him. "The Professor told so himself."

"Aye, but that was _before_ he decided that only Vanyar would have golden hair," Legolas riposted, "and forgot all about Father and that nameless Galadhrim. Besides, what does look gorgeous on Father, would not necessarily suit _me_. Honestly, I find the colour-changing hair you invented for us, Silvan folk, much more proper. I am glad you let me inherit it from Mother."

She laughed. "All right, you chose because of the hair, though I doubt that was your only reason. But what is your father's excuse?"

Legolas grinned. "I cannot be certain, but I believe the wife you had chosen for him played an important role in his decision. Father had always been attracted to older women… older than him, that is. To women with wisdom and experience. Mayhap it was because of Melian."

She had to laugh again. "You are devious, do you know that?"

Those gorgeous eyes twinkled once more. "I know. You write me that way. And I like it." Then he became serious again. "Beyond that, you gave us a history that reaches back further into the sunless days than even Thingol's realm in Doriath. You gave us a noble ancestry, a culture of our own, dignity and pride. You made us not less wise and valiant in our own ways than those haughty, kin-slaying Golodh. "His face softened again. "And you gave us Aiwë."

"Whom I got killed by a spider ere she reached the age of twelve," she pointed out."

"That matters little," said Legolas. "We all love her nevertheless, and now that we are reunited again, we could not be happier. Did you know that Aiwë had refused to be released from the Halls until Father and I came to Eressëa? She wanted to meet us in the same shape as we were separated by her death."

"I know," she answered gently. "It was _my_ idea, remember?"

Legolas laughed merrily. "Oh, that is right. I keep forgetting what stands in The Books and what stands in your tales."

"I take that as a compliment," she said. "And not a small one."

"You should," Legolas agreed. "I rarely find what is written about us appealing enough to mistake it for… what do you scribes call it? For _canon_."

"Well," she said a little uncomfortably, "I doubt that you truly liked _everything_ I wrote about you."

"True enough," admitted the Elf. "There is _one_ thing that bothers me in your tales."

She rolled her eyes. "Spare me, please! I've already got a thorough tongue-lashing about this particular topic from Lord Elrond, thank you very much."

The mischievous twinkle returned to Legolas' eyes.

"Oh, but I did not mind my apparent affair with the Master of Imladris," he said with _almost_ convincing serenity. "In fact, I would like to take the credit for saving his life after Lady Celebrían left for the Blessed Realm. Alas that I cannot – that would have been a greet deed and no mistake. But Lord Elrond was strong enough to deal with his grief alone."

This reaction confused her to no end.

"You are not mad at me because I got you involved with Elrond?" she asked, just to be sure. Legolas shook his head.

"Nay; the book-Elrond, as you describe him, is noble and gorgeous and valiant and wise. I could have done much worse. Besides, you did not leave me pining after him forever." He flashed one of those sly, seductive smiles at her. "You gave me Indreâbhan. You gave me her more than twenty years ago – that is a long time for a mere mortal."

She couldn't help but laugh. True enough, she'd been writing LOTR-related fanfic way before she had even known that a genre called "fanfic" ever existed. Then she reddened a little, remembering certain parts of that – fortunately long gone – story. As if he could read her mind, Legolas laughed, too. It was a deep, pleasant sound.

"I see you remember."

"Yeah, and I'm not particularly happy about it," she muttered, beet red now. Legolas shrugged.

"Why not? She has always been a well-established person in your tales that had nothing to do wit Middle-earth – and she is beautiful. Even though I am more pleased with the changed settings now. She might be less powerful now than she used to be in your other tales… but I believe she is much happier."

"That was my first youthful sin into the hurt/comfort thing," she murmured. "Hopefully, it will remain my last one."

"Oh, it was not _that_ bad," Legolas comforted her. "Well, for poor Indreâbhan, it was not pleasant, I am certain of that, but I liked the tree house on Tol Eressëa you give me to live in. And Gimli housing in a nearby cave. And the bath house you gave us."

She smiled a little. "You still can have those."

"I certainly hope so," said Legolas. "I liked those settings better than the other tale with the red-haired _elleth_ and her mysterious past."

She shuddered visibly. "Don't remember me! It's most humiliating to realize that I've written a blatant Mary Sue long _before_ I would hear that term for the first time."

Legolas shook his head in sympathy. "There is naught to be ashamed of, Lady Scribe. Some very rare people make wondrous tales and songs at a very young age, seemingly without any effort. Other people work long and hard and with devotion on their tales and songs and pour the experience of their life into them. Who can tell which ones are the better and more beautiful songs? The more engaging tales?"

She looked at him in awe, understanding dawning on her but still unsure.

"Legolas," she said quietly, "why have you _really_ come? The truth, please."

"You have been tormented by dark thoughts and self-doubt for a very long time," he answered simply. "For too long for a mere mortal. We, who are in your debt for your love to us and your tales about us, were worried about you. So we decided that someone should visit you and comfort you a little. You deserve it."

"And how did _you_ get the job?" she asked, grinning again. Legolas gave her a mischievous wink.

"It was a close thing," he admitted. "Faramir and Éowyn wanted to come, too. After all, you have been writing about _them_ almost as long as about me."

She groaned, remembering her first – and mercifully lost – Faramir/Éowyn story that had been just as… erm… colourful as 'Legolas' adventures with the red-haired Elf maiden'.

"You guys will never let me forget the sins of my youth, will you?"

"Actually," Legolas' grin was so broad it nearly split his face in two, "Faramir and the White Lady have rather… fond memories about that unfinished little tale. They still hope you might write it on some day again. They were most insistent to come and talk you into it, but I persuaded them that now would not be the right time for that."

"Still, there was the two of them against you," she said. "How did you manage to get your will against them? Éowyn isn't one to give up easily, you know. She is nothing like that wallflower in the movie."

"Oh, I know that, believe me," the Elf laughed. "But I had an ace in my sleeve still."

"You had? What sort of ace?"

"Father," replied Legolas, still grinning like a fool. "I asked him to give them the 'Thranduil look'. Father loves intimidating mortals into obedience. And he had the older claim."

"What older claim?" she asked in surprise.

"Well, it was him you had the first crush on, was he not?" replied Legolas. "Was it not the Elvenking of Mirkwood you fell first in love with? Did you not like _me_ immediately when you read The Books for the first time, just because I was his son?"

"True enough," she admitted. "But never thought that King Thranduil would notice such things. I'm not such a widely-known writer, after all."

"Lady Scribe," said Legolas, suddenly very serious, "My father has suffered vile atrocities from other scribes since those… movies came out. His good name has been sullied, his wisdom and nobility questioned, he has been accused of the most evil deeds against his own family. You have always defended his honour, you wrote beautiful tales about him, you even gathered many other peoples to defend him. You truly believe he would not notice you?"

She blushed again, this time on a good way.

"All right," she said, "I see now how you gained the right to this visit. Now tell me, how do you intend to 'comfort' me? I've become a little suspicious about your ideas."

"I am hurt," declared Legolas, walking into the study and grabbing a CD showed it into the slit of the computer. Soft Elven music began to play in the background – she was sure that it was nothing she had ever had. "But I shall persuade you of the innocence of my intentions," Legolas continued, pulling her to his feet. "'Tis almost Winter Solstice. My people dance during this festival. So, we, too, shall dance."

She laughed. "Legolas, I can't dance! I have two left feet as we say. And I'm clumsy beyond help."

"That is not true," he said, taking her into a light embrace and leading her around with swaying steps in the suddenly widening room. "You might not know how to dance with mortals. But you will most certainly enjoy dancing with _me_."

"All right," she laughed, feeling light-headed and more happy than she had been for a very long time. "But first you must tell me what is the one thing you don't like in my stories."

"Oh, that," Legolas swept her with him in an almost weightless manner. "Nothing serious, truly. My only complaint is that I seem sometimes too grumpy. I am a Wood-Elf, you know. We know how to have a good time."

The end – for now.

****************

Copyright: Soledad Cartwright, 2003-12-30

****************

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	9. Nine: Surprise

**STRANGE ENCOUNTERS**

**Of a Frustrated Fanfic Author**

**by Soledad**

**Disclaimer: All the characters – except the main heroine – belong to Professor Tolkien. I'm just borrowing them for a while to play.**

**Rating: G**

**Author's notes: **

These independent little chapters have very little to do with my regular stories, except the fact that the Tolkien-characters appearing here will behave the way they do in my other writings. None of this is supposed to be taken seriously. :)

This part was inspired by a _genuine_ Christmas card I got from my good friend Archet, the generous provider of hottest Elladan/Boromir photomanips and lovely Elladan/Boromir vignettes. The test if the card was used with her friendly consent.

**Dedication: To Archet, with love. Merry belated Christmas!**

**NINE: SURPRISE (Elladan/Boromir)**

For a change, our Frustrated Fanfiction Author (still FFA for those who know and dislike her) was looking forward to Christmas. Maybe the reason for her more mellow feelings was the fact that this time she managed to avoid the usual pre-Christmas insanity. She had managed to get a present to all of her annoying relatives way in advance, which meant that she didn't even have to set a foot into the overcrowded shops after December 10.

She even managed to think of something sensitive for her mother – not an easy task, considering how selfless and undemanding the old lady was in this area. So thy went to the sea-aquarium together and had a good time, FFA plotting story ideas about Círdan in particular and Telerin Elves in general while her mother watched the rays getting fed in their open basin.

What was even better, said annoying relatives were sensitive enough to limit their visits to two afternoons, one which they even involuntarily shared with one of FFA's few remaining Real Life™ friends: a young lady who shared several of FFA's interests, including Star Trek and the Tolkienverse. Unfortunately, she also had the tendency to arrive early in the afternoon and leave late in the night. (She also owed our FFA some money, which fact she conventionally kept forgetting, but that's another story entirely.) This time however, she left after a mere five hours (including lunchtime), leaving an utterly relieved FFA behind, who even felt a little guilty about her own relief – the woman was a _friend_, after all!

Using the time slot between her friends departure and the invasion of her younger cousin's family (this was _not_ the jerk who looked like Hugo Weaving, just to set things straight), our FFA switched on her computer to do some long overdue R&R stuff. She owed several reviews to several people and felt guilty about it. Plus she wanted to take a look at a few forums where she had been lurking around, following some excellent bitching sessions. Not to mention that she had recently discovered a couple of Star Trek fanfic archives that she wanted to check out. Having reached her – admittedly rather low – tolerance limits concerning LOTR-related bad slash, she still could laugh her head off reading some of the more ridiculous Trek stories, so she thought a temporary change of fandoms would be in order for the evening.

She was in the middle of a complicated, uber-angsty, sappy and hysterically OOC Paris/Chakotay romance when the pleasant bell tune of her computer announced the incoming of mail. She switched from IE to Outlook – and stared at the incoming e-card in utter disbelief. The picture itself was common enough – a beautiful hind standing in romantic snowfall – but the text, as hard as it was to believe, was _hand-written_ and in _Tengwar_. Most likely in Elvish or Westron, too, though that was hard to decide when one couldn't read the letters.

Now, after all those unexpected visits from Middle-earth something like that shouldn't have surprised her – yet it did. Unfortunately, as easy as she picked up _spoken_ languages, she was an utterly and hopeless fool when it came to purely written ones. She had never been able to learn a language from books alone, which was the reason why all the Elven names and the very few Elvish expressions that ever appeared in her stories were either borrowed from the Professor himself or made up/translated by the more scholarly members of her mailing list.

Adding insult to injury. In this very moment the Green Invaders… erm, her cousin and his family… finally arrived, and in the next three hours she was busy with offering food and drinks for four people, refilling the trays with cookies, handing out gifts and desperately trying to find any other common topic aside from school – an effort that had been doomed from the beginning – and to keep the conversation from turning to politics, which she more or less managed to do. That was a great relief in itself.

When the visitors finally left (thank the Valar they had theatre tickets for the late evening) she cleaned up after them, spending a lovely hour or two with picking up all the shiny little thingies her cousin's wife shook out of her hair with every turn of her head, threw everything into the kitchen sink for "later" and collapsed in front of her computer screen again. It was time to find out who had written that e-card and what was in it.

Molesting the language experts of Edhellond about something like that on Boxing Day would have been rude, of course. But one of them had posted a link to a site where a clever little program readily translated everything written in Tengwar into plain English, and that was the one she intended to use. _If_ she could make it work, that is. She was just as much a fool in following written instructions as in learning written languages. Still, it was worth a try – and better than pestering other people at such an inconvenient time.

Fortunately, the program turned out to be idiot proof. So much so, that it only took a couple of hours for her  to figure out how it worked. Plus, it had a sophisticated little thingy in it that even reacted to the original handwriting, displaying the two short messages in different styles.

The first one, shown in neat, elegant Old English font, said:

_Happy Winter Solstice, Lady! _

_A Winter Solstice Greeting for Lady_

_from Elladan&Boromir:_

_Peace on Earth _

_Dear Lady,_

_Boromir and myself just wanted to extend to you our sincerest, happy wishes for this Winter Solstice. May the frost of Winter linger not long in your land, and the green Spring bloom warm within you always._

_Forever Yours,_

_Elladan Elrondion_

She sniffled. Truth be told, she had secretly hoped for a visit by her favourite Elf… she had grown rather fond of Elladan, ever since Elrond's eldest had marched into one of her early stories, grabbed Boromir and dragged him straight into his bed. She had never planned such a turn of events, in fact, not even the thought had ever occurred to her. It simply happened. Still, she was quite happy with it, even though she sometimes doubted that Elladan would truly be as… angsty as he came through in her stories occasionally…

She turned her attention back to the screen and discovered a short note at the end of the message: _ps: Boromir would like to add something..._

The other message was displayed in bold, strongly written Lucida Sans font and said:

_Dear Lady,_

_Excuse my Beloved, this business of Winter's frost and warm blooming Springs is not my style. Let *me* extend to you my warmest wishes to you this Winter Solstice. You are held in my, in our, thoughts fondly and with great affection. _

_Forever Yours,_

_Boromir son of Denethor_

_ps: please don't tell Elladan I didn't care for his greeting, he's still miffed at me for eating the last of the honey cakes._

She read both messages again and smiled fondly, remembering Boromir's visit. The Man of Gondor had obviously forgiven her. That was good to know. She printed out both letters, the original _and_ the translation and shut down her computer. She had received quite a few greeting cards from her online friends, both through email and real ones, but never a better one than that of the star-crossed lovers.

Having _this_, even doing the washing-up after the invaders seemed less horrible at the moment.

~The end – for now'

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

**For the record:**

The original card was written in English, of course. I only made very slight changes.

"The Green Invaders" is a very silly sci-fi vignette I wrote when I was still learning English.

A program that would automatically translate from Sindarin or Westron written in Tengwar into plain English _doesn't_ exist, at least not to my knowledge.


	10. Ten: Gimli

**STRANGE ENCOUNTERS**

**Of a Frustrated Fanfic Author**

**by Soledad**

**Disclaimer: All the characters – except the main heroine – belong to Professor Tolkien. I'm just borrowing them for a while to play.**

**Rating: G**

**Author's notes: **

These independent little chapters have very little to do with my regular stories, except the fact that the Tolkien-characters appearing here will behave the way they do in my other writings. None of this is supposed to be taken seriously. :)

This is a bookverse vignette, which means that Gimli is played by Jeffrey Combs, who would have been my choice for the part. His comments about Legolas being given a bad name in favour for the First Age Elves were inspired by a private discussion with a friend. Yes, I'm mad for Legolas being blamed for the crap that is written about him. It's not his fault. He is a decent character, and I wouldn't give him for any other Elf in Tolkien's universe. Well, maybe for his father… But let's not go _there_.

**Dedication: for Jenn and Levade, who wanted a meeting with our sturdy Dwarf.**

**TEN: NEW YEAR'S EVE (Gimli)**

Having survived the invasion of her relatives around Christmas, our Frustrated Fanfiction Author (still FFA, for lack of any better solution) was preparing herself fro New Year's Eve. There was nothing worth watching on TV (her idea of "humour" differed greatly from that of those responsible for general entertainment) but she didn't feel like surfing the 'Net, either. She had just recently discovered that once again, her hard work was getting overlooked – and on one of her own lists, no less – which made her feeling extremely sorry for herself and eminently bitchy towards everyone else. That was an unhealthy combination that could inspire her to reactions she usually regretted afterwards. Therefore, staying away from the 'Net seemed a good idea.

Thus she settled for watching some old videos while munching on the traditional boiled sausages with mustard and maybe drinking some alcohol free champagne wih her mother before midnight. It wasn't much to look forward to, but it was better than any other alternative.

Barely had she made herself comfortable in front of the TV, however, when someone knocked on the balcony door. Which was strange in itself, as the balcony was a closed one. Besides, she lived on the second floor. She blinked a few times, fighting her ever-present fear from burglars, crazed serial killers and other niceties of Real Life™, but when the knocking repeated, she decided to take a look. Whoever it was, he could simply break through the glass door and come in if he wanted anyway.

Before she reached the door, however, the unexpected visitor had apparently found the light switcher, for the balcony became illuminated at once, and her gaze fell upon a man who stood grinning next to her Christmas tree. A short, wiry man with a neatly trimmed and braided, fiery beard, a round face, a slightly upturned nose and two small, round, very dark and very bright eyes.

A _man_? She took another look, noticing for the first time the white hood tossed back onto a broad back, the old-fashioned tunic and leggings, the heavy boots and the short-handled axe that was tucked into a broad leather belt. No, this wasn't a man whom she saw. It was a _Dwarf_. And she knew at once which one (the white hood was a dead give-away, since she started her adventures in the Ardaverse with "The Hobbit").

"My apologies, Gimli son of Glóin," she said, opening the door hurriedly and making some feeble attempt to bow; she wasn't very good at it, truth be told. "I haven't realized it was you, or else I'd have let you in at once."

"Dwarves are not afraid of a little cold," he answered in a deep, rumbling voice that sounded like the surprisingly pleasant echo of some far-away thunderstorm. "But you, Lady, should put on some warm clothes, for despite the roaring fires, the Great Hall of Erebor could be a little chilly at wintertime."

"And that would matter to me – why exactly?" she asked, raising an inquisitive eyebrow.

"For that is where we are going," the Dwarf explained, extremely pleased with himself. "You have been invited to the New Year's Feast by King Dáin Ironfoot himself, and I was sent to fetch you."

She blinked a few times. "I thought you would celebrate with your own people in Aglarond. Or in Tol Eressëa, with Legolas."

Gimli made a sour face. "Yea, so did I. But Legolas and that high-nosed father have been invited to some big feast in Valinor itself. Apparently, Thingol finally has been released from the Halls and the Sea-Elves of Alqualondë are having a big party to welcome him back. With singing and dancing under the stars until they fall over. And as Legolas is related to the whole bunch through his great-grandfather or whatnot, he had to go, too."

"I don't think that would be such a hardness on him," she said doubtfully. "No-one has songs like the Teleri, and Legolas thrives on music and song."

"True enough," Gimli admitted, "yet things are a little… tense at times. Those Elves from the First Age have heard a few times too often how much better they are than Legolas and his kin from their… how do you Menfolk call them in these days?… from their _groupies_. They have begun to think that they _truly_ are better, somehow." He gave a very undignified snort. "You should hear the tone they can say _Moriquendi_. Never mind that they turned against their backs on the soil of their birth, leaving behind their own kin to Morgoth's mercy. Never mind that later they rebelled against the Valar themselves, then murdered their own kin and took their ships by force. Nah, they are still 'better', for they have seen the Light of the Trees. Ha! Fat good did it do to them! Their minds certainly did not get enlightened by it. They kept slaying other Elves for three pieces of jewellery. And they dare to call _us_ greedy," he added, fuming. "Felakkundu and Khelebrimbor are the only halfways decent people among them – at least they treat Dwarves with respect, as fellow artisans."

The typical Dwarvish pronunciation of Finrod and Celebrimbor's names made her smile. But thinking over what Gimli had just said made her smile fade quickly.

"Are you saying that the other Elves are looking down at Legolas, because of his Silvan heritage?" she asked with a frown.

"Not in Tol Eressëa," Gimli replied. "In fact, he is a _very_ popular Elf in Queen Meril's court. But ever since those… those _movies_, the horrible tales about a whiny, disgusting, unmanned fool who happens to bear his name have overflooded your world, and people began to believe that my poor friend would truly be like that. Even those who have read The Books and should know better. And the Elves of Valinor listen to those scribes who think them being above Legolas. There have been… unpleasant encounters," he added darkly, stroking the handle of his axe meaningfully.

She smiled again, imagining the loyal Dwarf defending his friend's honour against some haughty Elves of the First Age. That must have been a performance rarely seen in the Blessed Land.

"So, have you ever regretted following Legolas to the West?" she asked. Gimli thought about it for a moment – then he shook his head.

"Nah, not really. Tol Eressëa is a beautiful place to live, even if I am the only Dwarf there. I have made some friends, aside from Legolas. And I get to visit Mahal's smithy every time and again. Or Gandalf and the hobbits. Besides, when the nancing of all those Elves becomes too much for me, I can travel through time and visit the realms of my forefathers. 'Tis only a tale in which we all live, after all," he added with a shrug and a grin.

She grinned back, finding the Dwarven perspective uniquely refreshing.

"And you are planning to feast in Erebor tonight?" she asked.

Gimli nodded eagerly. "I cannot wait to get there. We never had that many people in Aglarond, nor the proper music. Dwarves need a long time to grow close to a new dwelling place and make music that would suit that place properly, you know. But Erebor's roots reach deep, 'til the very heart of the world. You will see it… and feel it… _if_ you manage to get ready in this Age still. Are you willing to go or not?"

"That depends," she replied smugly. Gimli snorted.

"On what?"

"On the question if there will be sausages, spicy mustard, pumpernickl and enough good dark ale," she answered with a grin. The Dwarf threw his head back and gave a roaring laughter that vibrated in his broad chest like a minor earthquake.

"Alas that you are not  a head shorter," he said, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes. "Every unbound Dwarf would fight for the chance to wed you."

She fund that very amusing; being a short and rather stocky woman, this was the first time anyone had ever found her too _tall_. "You think so?"

"Aye, I do," Gimli nodded with emphasis. "You have a Dwarven heart: full of fire."

"Maybe," she smiled, feeling the heat rising into her cheeks; never was she given a better compliment (not that she got many of those, mind you). "But I have no skills whatsoever, unfortunately."

"I would not say _that_," Gimli looked pointedly at the golden and silver stars decorating the windows. Stars that she had folded from paper-thin golden- and silver-coloured foil with hours upon hours of patient labour. "It has not always to be something _big_, you know. It seems to me that your fingers are skilled enough to create small things of great beauty… what else would you want?"

"Well, if you put it that way," she shrugged uncertainly.

"Trust me," Gimli replied, "when it comes to skills and art, I know very well what I am talking about. So, do you have something warm to pull over? And you will need warm boots, too. The stone floor of the Great Hall can be very cold."

She rummaged a little in her cupboard, until she found a very thick, black-and-white knitted sweater and some really warm black trousers. Her grey winter boots looked a little silly to them, but Gimli took a once-over and declared her suitable for a Dwarven feast. Then he took her hand and said,

"Close your eyes tightly and jump!"

"Jump?" she replied, not understanding it at all. "But we are standing in the middle of my anteroom…"

"Trust me," Gimli smiled, squeezing her hand gently. "Just shut your eyes and jump."

She still found it ridiculous, but again, what could happen, standing with both feet firmly set on her anteroom floor? She shut her eyes and did as if she would jump…

To her shocking surprise, the floor vanished from under her feet. Just like in those weird dreams when one steps down from a walkway, not thinking of anything wrong and starts falling down, down, into an abyss and wakes up, coated in cold sweat, before hitting the bottom.

Only this time she didn't wake up. Nor did she hit anything. She landed gently on her feet, and when she opened her eyes, she found herself in a hall of incredible proportions. The arched stone ceiling was so far above her head that she could barely see it. Fire roared in great hearths along both sides of the hall, and Dwarves of various size, age and gender were sitting along low oak tables that were groaning under the food heaped upon beautifully-crafted golden and silver trays. Music and great laughter filled the hall, mixing with the mouth-watering scent of spicy food. Jugs of dark ale were raised and emptied in one swig.

"Come on," Gimli nudged her guest, "let us greet the King, then we can mingle with the people. You think Wood-Elves know how to have a good time? You would not even know the _meaning_ of fun ere you have feasted with Dwarves."

She was dragged before King Dáin Ironfoot, who greeted her with a clap on her back that nearly broke her spine and several ribs, than Gimli guided her to Bombur, who was laying on a couch near the table. The very old and very fat Dwarf greeted her enthusiastically, and so did the others of Thorin's Company who were still alive. Someone pushed a tankard of dark ale into her hand, another one placed a huge plate of food before her, and when the singing began, she became lost in the strange harmony of deep Dwarven voices and forgot everything else on the world.

~The end – for now~

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Yes, I'm extremely fond of Bombur, too! So what?


End file.
